


Treading Water

by nekosmuse_archive (nekosmuse)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 05:51:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16340978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekosmuse/pseuds/nekosmuse_archive
Summary: Written pre 2007. Stacy/Cuddy. Need I say more? Fair warning. It's probably really fluffy.





	Treading Water

Three months to the day and she knows she shouldn't be surprised.

And she's not; at least, she's not surprised that it fell apart, even if it did take three months longer than she thought it would. Stacy's affair with House told her it was coming, after all. It was, however, a surprise when Stacy called her. Her, and not House, and Lisa could have sworn he'd be the first person Stacy told.

Apparently not, and maybe she was wrong about them. Or maybe she just didn't have the full story; the bits she'd pieced together --most of them second hand from Wilson-- not enough to paint a full picture and maybe that was why Stacy called her. And maybe that was why Stacy was so adamantly against meeting her at the hospital.

Somewhere in the back of her head, Lisa thinks that she probably should have seen that coming too.

They meet in a bar.

A little, out of the way place that Lisa would never frequent on her own. It's the kind of place she can see House dragging Wilson and maybe that's why Stacy suggested it. Then again, it could be something else entirely. Lisa's not entirely certain she wants to know what that something is.

The place reeks of beer and the stale scent of unwashed skin, so Lisa tries very hard not to breathe as she weaves her way through the crowd, the bar busier than any place has a right to be on a Wednesday night. Crossing the room earns her an elbow to the stomach, as well as the leering stares of well over half the patrons. Lisa thinks, dimly, that maybe House has a point.

Not that she'll give him the satisfaction --oh, no, anything but that-- so she doesn't pull her jacket closed, despite the sudden urge, leaving her cleavage exactly where it's been all day. If people want to look, she's not going to stop them.

Stacy's easy to find. The only well dressed woman in the place; slimming grey suit standing out in a sea of jeans and halter tops. She's sitting at the bar, back toward the door, slender fingers curled around a glass of something that Lisa thinks might be gin, maybe vodka, but she can't really remember what Stacy usually drinks. 

Lisa thinks idly that she should.

It's an unimportant detail, though, so she forces the thought from her mind, practically fighting her way through a crowd that grows thicker the closer she gets to the tarnished brass railing that circles the bar. Halfway there, Stacy turns, spots her and offers something that Lisa suspects is meant to be a smile. 

It doesn't quite touch her eyes, though, the gesture more forced than anything and Lisa doesn't miss the redness of her cheeks, or the slightly glazed look that tells her that Stacy's been here a while. That this isn't her first drink. 

"Hey," she still manages, shouting over the din of the crowd and, when Stacy frowns, Lisa knows she hasn't heard. 

She doesn't repeat her greeting, the word meaningless. Instead she nods to the back of the room, catches the bartender's eye and orders two of whatever Stacy's drinking before reaching for her wallet. 

The drinks appear just as Stacy's getting to her feet, Lisa not quite missing the slight wobble that Stacy quickly masks, legs steadying almost instantly. Lisa shakes her head before paying, grabbing both glasses and leading them into one of the dark, nearly deserted corners. 

The music's quieter here and it's only then that Lisa realizes that there's a band playing on the other side of the room. They're not very good, but she's not here for the music and the acoustics in the place are bad enough that they're easy to ignore. Bad enough that by the time they make it across the room, she can once again hear the clicking of her heels against the sticky, not quite even floor. 

Stacy picks the table, a rounded booth that Lisa suspects is meant for couples. The seats are covered in faux red leather, worn and held together mostly with duct tape. Where the fabric's not torn, it's covered in stains. Lisa has a feeling she knows exactly what those stains are and cringes before following Stacy into the booth, taking a sip of her drink to mask the grimace twisting at her lips. 

Gin. 

She was right the first time. 

"I told him," Stacy says, before Lisa's had a chance to set her drink down, the seat beneath her forgotten as she tries to process Stacy's words. 

"Told who what?" she asks when it becomes clear that Stacy's not going to elaborate. 

"Mark. About Greg, and..." 

She's nodding before Stacy gets the words out, Stacy trailing off with a gesture and this isn't surprising. She's known Stacy almost as long as she's known House and, while Stacy is more than willing to gloss over the truth, very rarely does she lie. Lisa doesn't question why it took her so long.

"Well, that was stupid," Lisa replies. 

And she doesn't mean to sound so harsh. Doesn't mean to sound so patronizing, but the words are out, her tone more truthful than she wants it to be. Oddly, Stacy doesn't look hurt. She doesn't even look offended. Mostly she just looks resigned, like she agrees with Lisa's diagnosis. Like she wasn't expecting anything else. 

Still, it's the kind of thing that House might say, and Lisa does regret that. Not because she wants to offer Stacy something more, but because she doesn't want to act as a stand-in; doesn't want to be Stacy's surrogate House, and Lisa's starting to suspect that that's exactly what she is. 

"You call House?" she asks before she can stop herself, Stacy's expression shifting to something that Lisa knows entirely too well. 

It's her, have you lost your mind look, the one that Stacy usually reserves for sound advice she has no intentions of taking. 

Lisa doesn't bother arguing the point, instead merely holding up her hands in a gesture of mock surrender, watching as Stacy drains half her glass in one swallow. It's a cue, Lisa knows, Stacy's way of telling her that the conversation is over, that the topic is off limits. 

Reaching for her own drink, Lisa finds herself oddly okay with that. 

~*~ 

"He said he didn't want to go there again," Stacy tells her, tone incredulous, like she's expecting Lisa to agree with her, maybe roll her eyes for good measure. 

Lisa doesn't answer. 

She suspects it doesn't matter, Stacy well beyond the point of conversation, ranting aimlessly now, talking just for the sake of talking and Lisa knows that anything she does add to the discussion --if she can even call it that-- will fall on deaf ears. 

The thought should make her angry --and it does-- but she can't quite focus that anger, the pieces finally coming together and it's obvious now that this isn't about Stacy's impending divorce. No, it's about House --story of her life, really-- or, more specifically, Stacy's inability to get over House. 

Her inability to move on and Lisa thinks briefly of telling her exactly who's sharing House's bed these days. She's not spiteful, though, so she keeps her mouth shut, sips at her third her gin and tonic and nods whenever decorum dictates that she should. 

Stacy doesn't seem to notice. 

~*~

Thursday begins with a headache that Lisa's starting to suspect might be permanent.

It lingers throughout her morning run, her morning shower and the breakfast that she doesn't quite taste. It follows her into work, the soft lights of the foyer far brighter than she can ever remember them being.

She takes perverse pleasure in tracking House down and reminding him that he has clinic duty. 

House balks and feeds her one of his lame excuses --something about having covered for Wilson last week and maybe she should check with him because he's sure Wilson would be more than happy for the reminder-- before limping toward the elevators. Lisa's half tempted to kick his leg out from under him. 

She doesn't, instead intercepting him, blocking his path, crossing her arms over her chest before nodding toward the clinic. House sighs, somewhat dramatically, before stopping. 

"Oh, fine, be that way," he says after a moment, obviously sensing that she's not going to back down.

House knows her well, apparently.

It still takes him several moments to get turned around, grumbling under his breath in the process, and Lisa's tempted to say something. She doesn't, mostly because she knows that the second she opens her mouth she'll say something she can't take back, but also because silent intimidation seems to be working and she doesn't want to lose her advantage. 

She's not really in the right frame of mind to deal with House today. Stacy's fault, really, because she spent the better part of the night listening to Stacy's drunken rambling, House apparently Stacy's favourite topic of conversation --despite her initial request that they avoid the subject.

The entire ordeal lasted hours, ending only on the drive back to Stacy's hotel, Stacy passing out in the backseat of Lisa's car. It took Lisa almost twenty minutes to drag Stacy into her room and deposit her, snoring, onto the bed --on her side so that she wouldn't choke on her own vomit.

She's not even really sure why the night bothered her so much, because she's been caught in the middle of the two of them for longer than she can remember. Just like she's been forced to endure Stacy's House tirades time and time again, and, just once, Lisa finds herself thinking, she'd like to know that Stacy considered her something more than just a sounding board for her problems with House. 

The worse part about the entire thing is that Lisa agrees with House --something she hates doing, but she learned, long ago, that House is usually right. They wouldn't work. Not in any kind of functional way, anyway; although she suspects that might be true of any relationship House managed to find himself in, the only functioning relationship she's seen him have the one he has with Wilson and even that can't be considered healthy by most people's standards.

The entire situation is frustrating enough that her headache returns tenfold, Lisa wincing, briefly contemplating letting House off clinic duty in return for a handful of his Vicodin.

And wouldn't that just be fitting.

~*~

She doesn't hear from Stacy again until Monday.

Stacy shows up at Lisa's office just as the day's coming to a close, looking oddly out of place, more nervous than Lisa can ever remember seeing her and Lisa doesn't need to ask to know why she's here.

"House left already," Lisa tells her before Stacy's even had a chance to cross the room, Stacy pausing midway to Lisa's desk, mouth falling open, closing a second later, and she frowns in confusion.

"What makes you think I'm here for Greg?" Stacy questions, cocking her head to the side, expression becoming almost bemused and Lisa's not sure how to respond to that.

Stacy saves her from having to ask, shaking her head like even she doesn't know what she's doing here.

"Actually, I was thinking, maybe, we could have dinner?" Stacy asks a second later, using her most pleading tone, the one with just a hint of drawl and Lisa hates that it works.

She feels guilty, anyway, heat staining her cheeks and she nods her response, not quite trusting herself to speak.

"Good," Stacy answers, smiling brightly then, coy expression falling into place and Lisa finds herself wondering, not for the first time, exactly what it is about Stacy that renders her incapable of rational thought. "Pick you up in an hour?"

It's all she can do to stammer out a yes, Stacy nodding before disappearing, heading out the way she came in. Lisa doesn't miss the brief glance that Stacy spares the clinic' examine rooms as she passes through Lisa's door.

Lisa watches her go and wonders exactly what game Stacy's playing.

~*~

Dinner is... awkward.

Part of the awkwardness, Lisa suspects, stems from the fact that Stacy's apologized six times since they arrived. It's out of character for her; something that Lisa doesn't really know how to process, and, for the sixth time, Lisa finds herself waving off Stacy's attempt to make amends.

"It's no problem, really," Lisa says, Stacy opening her mouth to argue, but Lisa cuts her off with a raised hand. Stacy falls silent and Lisa finds herself hoping that this will be the end of it.

"I don't usually drink myself unconscious," Stacy explains, the glass of wine in front of her untouched and, obviously, Lisa was wrong; this isn't the end.

"So you got drunk. So I had to carry you --which, by the way, you're not exactly as light as you look. So you threw up on my shoes; it happens," Lisa tells her, her words far less tactful than they were the first five times she dismissed Stacy's apology, but it seems to work.

Stacy doesn't respond, anyway. She still manages to look abashed, but she doesn't apologize again, or offer up another explanation. Instead she merely reaches for her wine, the glass halfway to her lips before she thinks better of it, smiles sheepishly and places the glass back down onto the table, untouched.

Lisa has to fight not to roll her eyes.

She still has no idea what this dinner is about. They've been here twenty minutes now and, aside from a handful of apologies, they haven't really talked. There was a time, Lisa remembers, when she and Stacy were close. Close enough that they could sit through a dinner and never run out of things to say.

Granted, then their conversation consisted mostly of work, and House. Lisa doesn't really want to talk about House, and work is work, never-changing. She's fairly certain Stacy doesn't care about the hospital's recent donor list, or the new MRI machine that they bought to replace the one House destroyed.

Her personal life is... non-existent, for lack of a better word, the only exciting thing she's done in the last few months consisting of finding a new contractor to fix her leaky roof. It leaves nothing but awkward silence, Lisa forcing a smile, Stacy shifting in her seat and, when their meals arrive, Lisa's never been happier for a distraction.

She doesn't even care that her pasta's cold.

She eats it without complaint, watching from across the table as twice Stacy forgets and takes a sip of her wine. She seems shocked each time and Lisa half expects her to spit the mouthful back into the glass. She doesn't, swallowing forcibly, setting her glass down a little further away from her each time.

"Is it true?" Stacy asks, halfway through the meal, the first thing either of them has said in what seems like hours. Lisa blinks and tries to figure out what she missed.

"Excuse me?" she ends up asking, drawing a blank, and Stacy actually looks taken aback; like she didn't really mean to ask and can't believe that she actually spoke the words out loud.

"Never mind, it's none of my business," Stacy tells her and instantly Lisa clues in.

"I don't know," she answers, because she doesn't, not really, anyway.

She's heard the rumours, seen the two of them leaving together, arriving together, but whether they're simply living together or something more, she can't say.

She's not really sure she even wants to know.

Stacy seems to get that, shrugging like it doesn't actually bother her, smile not quite as forced as it was the last time Lisa saw her. Still, Lisa offers her a sympathetic look, one that Stacy meets with a laugh.

"Figures," she answers, this time purposely reaching for her wine, draining the glass and, when she sets it back down again, Lisa can't help but notice that the tension has drained from her shoulders.

~*~

Dinner becomes lunch, which becomes dinner, which becomes drinks, which becomes lunch again. The cycle repeats itself. If Lisa didn't know any better, she'd swear they were dating.

A ridiculous thought, and obviously it's been way too long since she last dated. Years, in fact, which would explain why she's projecting. Still, it's... nice. Enjoyable in a way that she knows it shouldn't be.

It's easy to get lost in the fantasy, though, their conversations becoming easier, seamless in a way they weren't during those first few outings.

It's easy, too, to forget that this is only temporary, that eventually Stacy will take on a new job, move out of the hotel that Lisa's only ever seen the inside of once. She'll likely leave the city, too; two failed relationships enough to drive anyone away.

Still, Lisa finds herself looking forward to their dinners, and their lunches, even their drinks; so much so that the rest of her life seems mundane in comparison.

When Stacy calls again on Saturday morning, Lisa lies and tells her that she has plans.

She's not sure why she does it, except maybe that it's harder to pretend when she knows the truth. Ignorance is bliss, after all, and Lisa's never remained ignorant for long.

~*~

Stacy doesn't call again for four days.

When she does, Lisa listens to her leaving a message, shakes her head and deletes it. She doesn't return the call.

~*~

It's Wilson, of all people, who calls her on her mood.

She's surprised it didn't come sooner, the days bleeding together, Lisa snapping at pretty much everyone --including the board, and that should have instantly told her that she was in over her head.

He finds her in the hall outside her office on a Tuesday, drags her off into a corner and, in typical passive aggressive Wilson fashion, asks her what is going on. 

Lisa tells him that it's none of his business and doesn't check the sarcasm in her tone when she asks if he's run out of pretty nurses to console.

To his credit, only Wilson's eyes give away his hurt.

He doesn't back down, pressing her as hard as he's ever pressed House and Lisa's not surprised when she finally caves.

"Don't tell him," is Wilson's only response to finding out that Stacy's back in town.

Lisa doesn't tell him that she didn't intend to.

~*~

Friday brings with it summer, complete with a too bright sun and the scent of fresh cut grass.

Lisa finds the entire thing nauseating.

She's early, sleep eluding her on the best of days and today is one of her worst. The lights in her office are on; a sign that she should probably turn around, head back out to the parking lot and take today as a sick day.

Hindsight being twenty-twenty, the thought doesn't occur to her until it's too late.

She's halfway to her desk when she notices Stacy, Stacy perched on the edge of her couch, hands folded neatly in her lap, briefcase leaning against her right ankle and, for a moment, Lisa's too stunned to do anything but stare.

It takes Stacy standing to break her from her trance, Lisa coming to with a start, words forming and dying on her tongue as she tries to process what to say. Stacy saves her that trouble too.

"You've been avoiding me," she says, but her tone isn't accusing, the statement merely an observation.

"I've been busy," Lisa replies, a lie, but Stacy doesn't call her on it.

She merely nods, shrugging off the excuse like she didn't expect anything else and Lisa has to bite her lip to keep from screaming.

She wants to. Wants to ask what Stacy's doing here and what Stacy wants and why the hell she just won't leave well enough alone.

Because it was simple at first, easy to understand, Stacy here for one reason, but now... Now Lisa doesn't know. Can't tell, because, as far as she knows, House still doesn't know that Stacy's here --and if Stacy were here for House then she would have made damn certain that he did know.

"Why are you here?" she asks before she can stop herself, shaking her head the second the question is out because it's not what she meant to ask.

It's too late to take the question back, though, so she decides on avoidance; exhaling to displace the tightness in her chest that she blames on too long a run this morning, before moving around to the other side of her desk and claiming her chair.

The second she's seated she becomes aware of Stacy's eyes, Stacy watching her, and Lisa finds herself oddly grateful for the barrier between them. Glancing up to make eye contact suddenly seems easy.

"I got a job offer. Chicago," Stacy explains the second she's certain Lisa's listening, stepping forward to sit in one of the chairs lining the front of Lisa's desk. "I took it. I leave next week," she continues once she's seated, the words practically whispered, and Lisa tells herself that she's imagining the hint of uncertainty in Stacy's tone.

She can't quite convince herself that she's imagining the confusion reflected in Stacy's eyes, though --or the sudden sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach that she knows has nothing to do with the breakfast she skipped this morning.

"So this is goodbye?"

And it's not her voice that asks, but rather some other woman's, one that she doesn't recognize, tone thick with longing and something that she thinks might be regret.

"I... I don't know," is Stacy's response, her words stammered, and Lisa finds herself flashing back to the last time Stacy said those words.

And it keeps coming back to that, she realizes, House a chasm between them, House constantly there, even without him physically being in the room. For the first time in longer than Lisa can remember, maybe even the first time in her life, Lisa registers the sharp flare of disappointment that settles in her chest as jealousy.

The realization should shock her, maybe even terrify her, but it doesn't, the pieces coming together like one of House's cases: A leading to B, which leads to C and eventually back to A. It's so simple that, for a moment, she's tempted to laugh. 

She doesn't, instead opening her mouth to speak, the words dying on the tip of her tongue when her door opens, Dr. Simmons from radiology poking his head inside. Her job has always come first.

Stacy seems to get that, sparing a single glance that speaks of her reluctance to leave. She does, though, excusing herself politely, and then she's gone, and Lisa is left with the start of her day. For reasons she'd rather not examine, the prospect of solving yet another budget crisis doesn't seem nearly as interesting as it once did.

~*~

As far as life changing experiences go, this one is fairly disappointing.

She thought perhaps she might feel different, changed somehow by revelation and understanding. Changed somehow by three days' contemplation. She doesn't. Instead she merely feels nervous, uncomfortable in her own skin. Twice now she's come damn close to turning around.

It's curiosity, more than anything, that prevents her from doing exactly that. Lisa exhales sharply as the elevator comes to a shuddering stop, the doors sliding open and it's so much easier to make her way down the hall without Stacy's dead weight pulling at her arms.

Six doors on the left brings her to Stacy's room and Lisa exhales a second time, ignoring the slight tremor in her hand as she brings it up to knock.

"This is about them, isn't it?" she asks the second the door opens, Stacy blinking in surprise, frowning a second later. Still, she moves aside, gesturing for Lisa to enter the room and Lisa does, trying and failing to ignore the open suitcase on the bed.

"Who, House?" Stacy asks as soon as Lisa's inside, the sound of door clicking shut behind her too loud in the otherwise silence of the room.

Lisa swallows a wave of hysterical laughter and resists the urge to ask if there is anyone else.

Because it's always House. Always. It doesn't even seem to matter who she's dealing with, inevitably, it comes back to House. He's been her cross for longer than she can remember and, standing in Stacy's room, still not entirely certain what she's doing here, except that she couldn't just let Stacy leave without saying something, Lisa can't seem to remember why she goes out of her way to keep him around.

She's so lost in the thought that she doesn't notice Stacy crossing the room, Stacy's presence going unregistered until she feels Stacy's fingers sliding around her wrist. Her grasp is firm and yet gentle in way Lisa wasn't expecting, like maybe Stacy's just as hesitant as she is and Lisa's half tempted to jerk away, run back to the safe confines of her job and her perfectly structured, boring life.

The option's no longer there, though, Lisa glancing up and suddenly Stacy's too close, her warmth too real, the room closing in around them, and Lisa's reminded of her sixth birthday party and the pool in her aunt's backyard that she was never allowed to use. She nearly drowned that day, swallowing wave after wave of water until the darkness seemed welcoming. It was her uncle who found her, pulled her out, and the shock of living was painful.

"I don't know," Stacy whispers, answering a question that Lisa no longer remembers asking.

It doesn't seem relevant now, the darkness receding, and, when Stacy leans forward, pressing their lips together for the first time, Lisa flashes back to her tenth birthday party and that same pool. It took her four tries, but by the end of the day she knew how to swim.


End file.
